Chapter 28
The first thing Beatrice saw when she woke up was Montrell’s face. Even sleeping, his brow was scrunched with concern. She moved her hand, the one not weighed down by a cast, passing her fingers over his thick, reddish-brown hair. Peace filled her as the crease on his face eased.
Montrell was alive. He hadn’t disappeared from her life, hadn’t been killed by her father or the idiotic Irish or anyone.
“I love you,” she rasped. She’d promised herself she’d tell him again if she could.
“He’ll be pissed he fell asleep,” Vespa said. She rose from the chair against the wall of Beatrice’s bedroom. She snorted as she shuffled closer, studying her face. “You look like hell.”
Beatrice didn’t doubt it. The hand she touched Montrell with had scratches all over it, as did most of her visible skin. Whatever medicine she’d been given had dulled the pain, but she could still feel it. “Same,” she said, and it was true.
Vespa’s face was mottled with dark bruises, and her arm hung in a sling just as it had in Vegas. She patted the strap of the sling with her good hand. “What can I say? We’re twinsies. Though mine was a dislocated shoulder and should heal faster.” Her gaze latched onto Beatrice’s arm. “That was his mom’s work, wasn’t it?”
Beatrice’s fingers froze. She forced them to move, to continue stroking Montrell’s hair. He deserved all the comfort in the world for having survived the mother he had. “The things she said…” she murmured. She wondered how long his mother’s laugh would haunt her. Not nearly as long as it would Montrell.
Vespa’s eyes narrowed. “You killed her?”
Beatrice dropped her gaze to her husband’s face. “Yes,” she admitted. She remembered Montrell’s conflicted expression as he’d said he hadn’t wanted his mother to die.
“Good.” Vespa scowled down at her sling. “I’m jealous as hell, but good. That bitch didn’t deserve to walk around this world, not after all she’d done to him.”
Beatrice wished Montrell was closer. She wished she could hug him. “I doubt he’ll feel the same way.” It had been self-defense, but Beatrice wouldn’t lie to him. She would have killed Maeve either way. The woman deserved it for that dreamy tone she’d used to talk about torturing her young son.
Beatrice’s fingers traced down his face, barely touching so she wouldn’t wake him. “He really is a gentle soul.”
Vespa blew out a breath. “All ooey-gooey inside, that’s for sure.” Her eyes softened as she looked at him. “He was freaking out when you weren’t with us. Nearly passed out when that lunatic assassin tumbled off the balcony with you.”
Beatrice remembered the arms that had wrapped around her. She shuddered at the memory of sudden weightlessness and was relieved she’d passed out.
“I had the best view from the ground, and watching that was wild.” Vespa shook her head. “We’ll need to properly thank the man. I’ll ask Nera about that. Montrell’s regretting not agreeing to rescue him back when he needed it.”
“How did—?” Sweat beaded on Beatrice’s forehead. “Never mind. I don’t need the details.”
“Makes you woozy to think about, doesn’t it?” Vespa said with a smirk. “Montrell was there to help carry you down from the fire escape. Had trouble easing his hold on you for the eventual doctor. He’s been at your side since.” Her humor fell as she studied Beatrice. “A broken arm and that hyena’s scratches,” Vespa murmured. “It sucks, but it could have been worse. A lot worse.” Her gaze fell. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”
“Me too,” Beatrice said.
“See?” Montrell mumbled. “I knew you two would be friends.” His eyes opened as his hand wrapped around hers, bringing it to his lips.
“Let’s not go overboard,” Vespa said with a grimace. She turned her back, striding toward the door. “I’ll leave you two to be all lovey-dovey together. Then we’ll talk about next moves.” The door clicked shut behind her.
Montrell straightened, scooting the chair closer to the bed. “How are you feeling?” He winced. “No, don’t answer that.”
Beatrice turned her hand in his, squeezing it. “Like I’m alive.”
His eyes slowly scanned her body. It was as if he paused at each and every scratch. “I’m sorry.” His voice deepened. “I’m so fucking sorry. I never should have—”
Her hand covered his mouth to stem his words. She always expected his facial hair to bristle against her fingers, but it was thick and soft. Her hand trailed over to cup his cheek. Him leaning into her touch was everything. “I love you, Montrell.” His eyes shimmered at her words. “My heart, my mind—it’s all filled with you. Thank you.”
His lips parted. “But—”
She tugged lightly on his beard to quiet him. “Thank you, Montrell. Thank you for coming to Vegas. I’m so glad I married you. I’m so happy you are who you are.” Her head slid along the pillow in a small shake. “It’s a miracle, the person you are. And I love you, no matter what happens.”
His eyes closed, and there was moisture on his lashes.
She tugged again. “Lean down here so I can kiss you.”
He moved his face closer. Their kiss wasn’t full of passion. It was soft, gentle, and achingly sweet.
His nose rubbed against hers when their lips parted. “I love you, too, Bea. So much.”
“Then get into bed with me. I want your arms around me.”
Montrell hesitated, his gaze shifting to her arm.
“You told me I get to do whatever I want. I know you’ll be careful.”
Montrell lifted her like she was made of broken glass that might cut him at any second. He settled her against his chest, his arms wrapping around her middle and his chin grazing the top of her head. His warmth helped to chase the last of the tension from her body.
She closed her eyes. “I’m not sorry I killed her.”
His head shifted, and his lips passed over her hair. “I’m not mad at you, Bea. I wish I’d been able to protect you better.”
Drowsiness drifted through her. “I feel safe like this.”
“You’ll always be safe with me.”
“I know.” She smiled at the truth of the words. “I really do know that. Fair warning. I might become the clingy type of wife.”
His surprised chuckle rumbled beneath her. “Cling away, but I might end up liking it.” His arms tightened just a little more. “A lot.”
The silence that fell between them was peaceful. From her position, she could hear his heartbeat.
Her eyes felt heavy with whatever pain medication they’d given her. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t ache, but she’d suffered through worse. In the past, whenever she was hurt, she’d always been left alone.
She wasn’t alone now.
“There’s one more thing I want.”
“Anything,” Montrell murmured against her, his thumb stroking her stomach.
“Let’s kill my father.” She needed to rest first. They all did. But he was a threat against them, and she couldn’t have that.
“I’ve been waiting for those words.”
“Sorry it took me so long.” She laced her fingers through his top hand. “And don’t even think about suggesting I stay behind.”
His thumb stroked over hers. “We do this together.” His cheek brushed against her hair. “Now, sleep. The rest will come.”
She fell asleep in her new favorite location—safe in her husband’s arms.
Laying waste to the Lucchese estate was a simple matter. Part of what made it easier was sheer numbers. The Di Salvos joined them in the hit, led by Antonio. The Coronellas would owe them yet another favor.
Montrell told Beatrice he didn’t mind, which didn’t surprise her at all. Her husband lived in the moment and didn’t seem to worry much about the future. The past was another matter. He kept bringing up his regrets, like trusting his mother when he’d known better and not helping the assassin when he had had the chance. The fact that Luka had been instrumental in saving her made him a good man in Montrell’s book.
The jury was still out on Antonio Di Salvo, but Beatrice had already noticed the man got things done. He’d sent the doctor to treat her and Vespa. Besides, Antonio had been the one to gather intel about her situation with the Albanians, and that had spurred Montrell to do what he’d wanted to all along. Every time she thought about Montrell coming to Vegas for her, there was a floating feeling that she wished annoyed her. It didn’t, at all.
The only person who seemed annoyed was Vespa. Antonio seemed intent on pushing her buttons even during the hit, and Beatrice kept an eye on them as they killed their way through the Lucchese soldiers. Montrell just seemed to find it amusing.
Even with one arm in a sling, Vespa took out more than her fair share of soldiers. Like Beatrice, there was no way she would have been convinced to stay behind.
Beatrice grew more and more tense as the body count grew. She stared down at the Lucchese guard she’d just shot herself. She gave no emotion away, but inside she was seething. Maybe she should have made a different choice. If she had told them about her father betraying the family, would they have turned on the man and lived?
Montrell waited, standing behind her as a shield. His boys were spread throughout the house, especially at the end of the hallway. They were as pissed as Montrell and fully onboard with additional blood. Montrell had made a good family, one she was beginning to trust. When they’d gathered to discuss the hit, the capos and soldiers had been angry on her behalf, not just Montrell’s.
Beatrice leaned back against Montrell’s chest, and his hands came up to hover over her. “Getting tired?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “He once was my bodyguard.” Her lips thinned as she stared at the dead Lucchese. “He watched me have my first kiss, laughed at my teenage antics.” Her fingers still held the gun she’d shot him with. “And when the Albanian came for me, when he pushed me down and kicked me in the ribs and broke my wrist in front of all of them, my former bodyguard watched that as well. He would have watched my father shoot me had the Irish managed to pass us all off like they planned.”
Vespa moved up to Beatrice’s side and spat on the dead Lucchese soldier. “Fuck him.” She bumped Beatrice’s uninjured arm with hers in the sling and winced.
“Bet that hurt,” Antonio said from behind her.
Humor flashed in Vespa’s eyes, not ire like Beatrice expected, before she whirled. Then she lunged for the Di Salvo, knocking him to the side as her gun came up. She shot the Lucchese who’d lifted his own weapon from the floor behind them. “Dammit, we need to follow up with more headshots to be sure. I can’t stand these bastards.”
“But you like me. Admit it.” Antonio smiled at her from against the wall.
Vespa’s mouth fell open as she stared at him.
“You just saved me from a bullet, Ves,” he said, his smile widening.
“Shit, I did,” Vespa said with a nod, her lips curling. “Bet you feel pretty stupid now, trying to get me left behind.”
Beatrice watched the Di Salvo’s face tighten as something moved in his hard, blue eyes.
Vespa was still rambling. “I told you I’d hold my own. You on the other hand…” Her gaze slid up and down the man’s body.
“I never doubted your skill.” Antonio pushed off the wall. “And stop checking me out. It’s not the time for that.”
Vespa snorted.
Beatrice eyed the two of them as Montrell’s hand came up to rub her good shoulder.
“You ready to finish this?” He’d already asked her before they came, multiple times, if she wanted him to be the one to end things. He hadn’t seemed surprised when she’d refused.
Beatrice nodded, straightening away from his chest.
They found Santino Lucchese alone in the sitting room, right where Luka had confirmed he’d be.
Beatrice’s father poured another glass of whiskey, his hand steady. “I always knew it would end like this.” He replaced the crystal stopper. “From the first moment I held you.”
“It didn’t have to.” Beatrice didn’t move any closer to the man. She didn’t trust him. “I actively avoided it, actually, Daddy.” She shook her head. “Was giving the Coronellas what you promised all along really so hard on you that you had to fight it?”
Santino tossed back his whiskey, turning to face her. “It wasn’t that. It was you.” His eyes narrowed as he stared at her. “First the Albanians and then the Irish were supposed to kill you. Them, or my men would have, during the exchange.”
Beatrice lifted her gun. “Because of what I held over you? Or did you want me dead all along? Is that why you sent me back to the Albanians when I needed my father to protect me?”
He shook his head. “Your mother ran from me once.”
The last of her pity for her father died. “You told me you loved her.” She had never known her mother, but she’d always imagined she had loved her father in return. If he’d hurt her enough to make her run, that wasn’t love.
“I did,” he said. “But I’d gotten angry and scared her, and she ran to her father. I was grateful to the man for giving me the chance to fix things.”
“The Albanian continued to break me in front of you when he came. Did you really believe he wanted to fix things?” She shook her head. “No, you were just scared of what he knew. You’re scared even now. You’re a pathetic worm of a man, and I’m lucky to have realized that before I killed you.” Her hand tightened on her gun. “After this, I’ll never think of you again.”
“This life always ends in death, but every moment since you took my wife from me, I’ve lived with the pain of that.” He swung his own gun up, pointing it at Montrell. “I want you to do the same.”
Beatrice shot him, but her sudden panic made her bullet enter his stomach, not his chest, and he was able to squeeze the trigger.
Vespa jumped in front of Montrell. Antonio cursed her and lunged as well. The three of them landed in an awkward pile as Beatrice continued to shoot, emptying her gun into her father even as everything in her screamed with the need to make sure Montrell was alive.
It was Antonio who was groaning as Vespa shoved him off.
“I took a bullet for you. Stop pushing at me.”
“You’re an idiot. I had that.” Vespa slid her gun to Beatrice. “Add one to his head while I stop this one’s whining.”
Antonio laughed, the force of it making him wheeze as his face scrunched with pain. “Should have known you wouldn’t be gentle.” He held his hand over the wound in his arm. They continued to argue, but Beatrice couldn’t focus on them.
Her eyes found Montrell, who stared back at her. He nodded, and she let the panic inside her dissipate. He was fine. She repeated that truth to herself one more time.
Then she picked up Vespa’s gun, approached her father’s body, and shot him in the head to make certain he’d never try to take what was hers again.